


call me anything you like, but my name is

by wishforwishes



Series: veronica and madame george at high tea [2]
Category: Harry Styles (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Harry, Dirty Talk, Family Bonding, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Multi, Non-Chronological, Other, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Roleplay (implied), Semi-Public Sex, Spit As Lube, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishforwishes/pseuds/wishforwishes
Summary: some conversations are better left forgotten, some conversations are worth remembering, and some conversations you never get the chance to have. Featuring three mentors, two tea parties, one and a half recording studios, and a reference to Archie comics.





	call me anything you like, but my name is

**Author's Note:**

> I was so thrilled to participate in the polyfest! It gave me the opportunity to follow up a thread I explored in one of my previous fics, which has some polyamory negotiations/foreshadowing. It’s not essential to read to understand this fic, but there are a couple references that might make a little more sense if you do, so check it out if you’re interested :D Thanks so much to Liz for beta’ing this and to the mods for letting me be a part of this fest! 
> 
> (obligatory disclaimer that all of this is fiction and i'm not implying anything about the actual personal lives of any people featured.)
> 
> (secondary disclaimer that I have no idea what the weather was actually like in Florida or Italy on any given May.)
> 
> (title taken from “Veronica” by Elvis Costello )

**prologue (2014 CE)**

It’s five months to the day until Zayn Malik leaves One Direction, and Harry Styles is snooping about where he doesn’t belong. 

Harry was honestly surprised to get an invite over to Zayn’s place. After spending the last four years in each other’s pockets recording and touring, the band doesn’t make a habit of hanging out in their rare free time. At least not anymore, Harry thinks, a little bitterly. And when Zayn _ does _want to get together with anyone, it’s usually Louis he calls, so they can smoke up together and bitch about how ‘demanding’ and ‘exhausting’ their schedule has been lately. 

Okay. Maybe Harry’s thoughts are more than a _ little _bitter right now. He guesses that’s why he’s being a bad friend and sneaking around Zayn’s apartment while he’s too high to notice Harry poking around in drawers. Can Harry even say he’s being a bad friend, though, if he’s not sure they’re any kind of friends at this point? Everywhere he turns, he seems to get more proof that it’s just as he feared — that he and Zayn just don’t know each other anymore. Harry doesn’t know the story behind any of the art on Zayn’s walls. He doesn’t know when Zayn started actually folding his clothes before he put them away. He doesn’t know whether the makeup he finds shoved at the back of the medicine cabinet means Perrie has properly moved in or if Zayn’s still messing around with other girls behind her back. 

And Harry certainly doesn’t know what to think when he finds a pencil skirt, a pair of torn tights, and a cheap wig stuffed in the bottom corner of Zayn’s linen closet. 

It takes him a minute to recognize it as the costume Zayn wore to transform into Veronica, more than a year ago now. Harry always figured Zayn was embarrassed about having to dress up like a girl for one of their music videos — but that doesn’t fit with the fact that he’s kept it all this time. Harry’s still standing there holding the skirt like a dumb-ass when Zayn finally gets up off the couch to come find him. 

Zayn just stares at him for a bit; Harry can practically see him sobering up before his eyes. After a minute of standing frozen in front of him, Zayn bursts into action, grabbing the skirt out of Harry’s hands and throwing it back into the closet. He slams the door closed, and then immediately re-opens it, grabs the skirt back out and the wig for good measure, then stalks over to his kitchen. Harry follows him cautiously, and watches as Zayn stuffs the costume into the trash. 

“Yeah, was meaning to toss that out a while back,” Zayn says when he turns back around, in what Harry thinks is a ridiculously casual tone of voice, considering his panicked actions. 

“Right,” Harry says, willing to play along if it means Zayn’s not calling him out for going through his stuff. 

“Yeah, I stole it off the set, and I was gonna burn it, all dramatic like,” Zayn continues, “but I must’ve forgotten about it. Funny, right?” He’s literally leaning up against the wall now, like he couldn’t be less bothered by this conversation. 

Harry nods and manages a laugh, hoping it’ll set Zayn at ease. 

“You sure you didn’t just want a memento? You were totally hilarious as a girl,” he says playfully, not expecting Zayn’s full-body flinch. Shit, Harry thinks. Why did he even say that? He sure didn’t think it was funny at the time. He was angry about it, actually, now that he remembers. Angry because — 

“Right,” Zayn says weakly, “It was a total laugh, wasn’t it? It was such a cheap fucking costume, and all that. I must’ve looked pretty stupid, huh?” 

Before Harry can get his foot out of his mouth and explain himself, Zayn’s making excuses about how he’s not feeling well, and how the weed was a weird strain he hadn’t tried before, and how he’s clearly just on a bad high right now, so Harry better clear out and let him sleep it off. It’s not long until Harry’s out of Zayn’s apartment and waiting in the building lobby for his car to be brought around. 

Well, Harry thinks, he can always try apologizing to Zayn the next time he sees him. He can explain then, that he didn’t really mean what he said. He was really just parroting something James Corden said last year: an offhand comment that became just one more thing for Harry to be bitter about. But he keeps putting it off; he keeps telling himself that_ next time _ he sees Zayn, that’ll be when he explains himself. _ Next time _he’ll ask why Zayn actually kept the costume. Harry keeps telling himself that for months. 

And then suddenly Zayn leaves, and burns all his bridges behind him when he goes, and Harry will never get another chance to talk to him about anything at all. 

* * *

**i. an unusually hot week in May (2013 CE)**

It’s eight-thirty in the morning in Miami, and Harry Styles is blissfully unaware that he’s about to get screwed out of his first screen-writing credit. 

Harry’s only been awake for half an hour and it’s already over thirty degrees. He thinks that has to be some kind of crime against humanity. He’s been to Florida enough times over the last few years to be familiar with how hot it gets, but it’s not even technically summer yet.

Luckily, he hasn’t had to be outside in the sweltering heat too much this week. He’s been holed up in hotel conference rooms with blessed A/C, brainstorming ideas with James Corden and Ben Winston for the music video they’re going to start shooting in a couple of days. At this point, it’s less of a proper MV and more of a promotional video for One Direction’s upcoming documentary, but Harry’s not complaining. He’s too grateful for the chance to help write the script. 

They’ve already settled on a handful of over-the-top characters for all the members of the band to play; now they just have to put their heads together about who will best fit with each role. 

“Actually,” Ben says, “It might be best to assign the parts based on who _ least _fits.” There’s a glint in his eye like he’s already looking at them all in costume from behind a camera. 

“More comedic potential that way! I like it,” James says, scribbling a note down that makes Harry laugh.

_ Liam = flamboyant choreographer _

“Good idea, but please don’t make me play either of the execs,” Harry pleads. “I don’t want to have a bunch of prosthetic glue stuck on my face in this kind of weather.” 

James leans back in his chair to get a good luck at Harry, stroking a non-existent goatee like a Bond villain. 

“Well,” he says, giving Harry an exaggerated once over, “that leaves you as either the nerd or the sexy secretary. Lucky you’re so cute in glasses, Styles, ‘cause you’ll be wearing them either way.”

Harry blushes at that, then flushes even deeper when Ben tacks on, “He’s _ Harry_. He’s cute no matter what. If we did put a fake bald cap on him, he’d probably make that work somehow too.”

“Guys, stop it,” Harry says (or whines, if he’s being honest). “I honestly don’t know why we’re debating this. Clearly I’m the only choice for Veronica.” 

“Oh, really? I’d like to see you audition as her, in that case. Go get on the casting couch and prove yourself to us.” James leers a little when he says ‘casting couch’ and Ben snorts, although Harry doesn’t know what was supposed to be funny about that. There’s not even a couch in the conference room. But there are a couple extra chairs set up against the wall, so Harry strides over to those and sits down on one. 

He’s been looking over and adding to the script so much over the last few days that he has pretty much all the dialogue and character direction memorized, so it’s just a matter of taking a deep breath and centering himself. 

When he stands back up, he's Veronica. He lets his voice soften and pitch just that little bit higher as he announces that One Direction have arrived for the meeting. Then he sways his hips suggestively as he walks over to where Ben and James are sitting. He bends over in front of them like she's meant to do in the scene when she serves water to everyone. He turns around with a playfully reproachful look on his face: his interpretation of the note in the script about Veronica's reaction when she realizes she's being checked out by the band. 

Then he relaxes his posture, going back to Harry as he says, "See? I’ve got the walk down and everything. Plus, I’m the one who came up with her name when I was listening to Costello yesterday. Clearly, it’s fate."

“You’re forgetting that you’ve got to dance _ with _Veronica, Harry,” Ben points out, but Harry can easily counter that: “Well, that has to be an extra selling point, right? The fans will go wild if they see me literally flirting with myself. It’ll be a trip.” 

Ooh, and that makes Harry wonder how they’re going to film that scene. Is he gonna need to work with a body double, like on that new TV show about clones? He gets so distracted thinking about the logistics of it that he misses Ben and James looking at each other, their brows wrinkled with worry. He also doesn’t see the way they look at him askance, on and off, for the rest of the day. 

If he’d noticed, maybe he’d have been less blindsided a few days later, when James shows the whole band the final script for the first time and it’s _ Zayn _that’s meant to play Veronica. Luckily, all the other lads are so busy pointing and laughing at Zayn about this that no one notices Harry pulling James aside. James holds up a hand before Harry can get a single indignant word out, and then waves Ben over to them. 

Harry waits, arms crossed and silently fuming, while Ben and James have a silent conversation over his head.

“The problem is that you were a bit _ too _good, H,” is the excuse James offers. 

“You wouldn’t want to give people the wrong idea,” Ben adds. 

Okay, now Harry’s properly confused, rather than just mad. 

“What kind of wrong idea?” He asks, a strange frothing of dread building in his stomach, even though he doesn’t know why. 

Ben actually chews on his lip for a few seconds before responding, like he’s not looking forward to this conversation either.

“The kind of idea it seems like you were giving us back in that conference room the other day. I mean, if I didn’t know you better, I’d have thought you were coming on to me. Or James. Or both of us.” 

Harry says nothing, too shocked to reply, but Ben isn’t done.

“I mean, I know you’ve got a reputation for being easy, but that’s with the ladies, right? Not with older men that you want to act like a lady for.” 

“I — I don’t —” Harry feels like he’s going to be sick; the dread is rapidly transforming itself into nausea. He keeps stuttering like mad, but eventually he manages to get a defense out. 

“I don’t understand what me being a good actor and following a script has to do with … with any of that,” is what he settles on saying. 

“It doesn’t, not really” James says, clearly placating him now. “Just...put those good acting skills to use as Marcel. Zayn will make a hilarious Veronica, and hilarity is what we’re after anyway. Besides, it’d put a real crimp in your skirt chasing if people saw you acting too at-ease _ in _ a skirt, you know what I mean? You’ll thank me later for helping you dodge _ that _bullet.” 

James pats him on the shoulder. Ben hands him the filming schedule. And then they both walk off and leave him there, feeling humiliated and not understanding why. What did he do to make them think he was flirting? He thought it was all just banter — them calling him cute, him flouncing around him as Veronica. And now, what? They think Harry took things too far? They thought he was propositioning them or something? Just because he spent a minute acting like a girl. 

But they’re fine with Zayn being Veronica, because it’ll be _ funny _. 

Later, Harry will decide that his audition was plenty funny too; it’s just that people don’t appreciate his sense of humour the way they ought to do. Later, he’ll shove down the fact that the idea of being laughed at for playing a girl makes him feel just as sick as James and Ben’s words did. Later, he’ll spend years casting that feeling aside whenever it threatens to return. Later, he’ll wear a yellow sundress and dance with a boy in Jamaica that he’s fallen in love with, and he won’t be able to keep those feelings bottled up anymore. Much later, Ben will remember this conversation and apologize profusely. James will remember eventually too, but he’ll never quite manage to say the words ‘I’m sorry’ — not even once Harry comes out. 

But for now, Harry excuses himself, finds the nearest one-stall bathroom, and cries his fucking eyes out. Later that day, he finds the time to compose an email to the crew, requesting not to be credited with helping out with the script (not even for the sake of a funny behind-the-scenes anecdote). After all, it would probably be giving people that same _ wrong _idea if they knew he helped create Veronica. 

The last day that they’re in Miami, James treats Harry to dinner, and ‘checks in’ with him ‘just to make sure there are no hard feelings’. Harry smiles and says that it’s all fine. And then he keeps saying it, and thinking it, until he’s forgotten that it isn’t true.   
****

* * *

**ii. an unusually hot week in May (2019 CE)**

Gucci is about to announce their first universal fragrance, and Harry Styles has nothing to wear to the launch party. 

He didn’t bring any fancy clothes with him to Italy, because Alessandro assured him he’d have plenty of time to walk through their storehouses and pick anything he liked from this season's looks. But now, it’s the day before the party, and Harry still hasn’t had a chance to drop by. He almost doesn’t want to leave the shelter of his hotel room. This is shaping up to be the hottest Italian May on record — and that’s saying something, according to Alessandro, who’s had to suffer quite a few unbearable Mediterranean summers in his life. 

Of course, his judgment needs to be questioned somewhat, because he’s also suggested that Harry wear all white, even though with this weather he would probably get sweat stains all over it within five minutes. Harry calls Harris Reed to get a second opinion, as they’re going to be attending the launch party too. Harris is delighted to be asked, and they also think all white would be stunning (Harry has the colouring and the silhouette for it, apparently) but they also caution him to pick out ‘the right white’ and not to mix shades. 

When Harry does finally manage to drag himself over to the Gucci warehouse, Harris meets him there. They spend more than two hours looking at options before settling on a choice that gets the seal of approval from Alessandro when they send him a photo of it. He also insists that the three of them get ready together the next day.

“I want to benefit from all this creative energy my beautiful muses are emitting,” he tells Harry, his rich accent even more pronounced over the phone. 

Harris, predictably, goes pink with delight at being included. Out of everyone that Harry’s met in the fashion world, they’re the only one whose gratitude and humility has never lessened over time. Harry doesn’t think they’ll ever be the type to take for granted the opportunities they’ve earned, which automatically makes them Harry’s favorite kind of person. 

They endear themselves to him even more the next morning, when all three of them are getting their nails manicured and painted. When Harris looks over at the vanity where Harry’s getting set up and notices his choice of nail varnish — pink and blue — they immediately clap their hands with delight. 

“Those two colours, plus the all-white outfit? You’ll be a walking trans pride flag, I love it.” Then they go straight from clapping to slapping their hands over their own mouth. 

“Sorry,” they mumble through their fingers, clearly embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to imply anything, I just mean, as a genderfluid person, as a fluid being, you know that’s like, the first thing I think of when I see that colour combo.” 

Harry has a choice here. He could smile, and say that there’s nothing to apologize for, and hey, that’s a cool thing to notice, thanks for pointing it out. Then he could sit down, let his nails be painted, and forget all about the comment.

Instead, he shoots a nervous glance over at Alessandro, who’s two chairs over from him and laser-focused on his own nails being painted; Harry knows he’s paying them more attention than he’s letting on, though. Harris, in turn, has lowered their hands back to the table so their manicurist can keep working — but they’re still obviously cringing about their outburst. 

“Well, as a genderfluid person — or uh, as a fluid being — that’s what I was going for, so good to know it’s coming across.” There. Harry said it. In front of Alessandro, and Harris. And also three random Italian nail manicurists; oops, Harry thinks. Depending on their comprehension of English, any of them could pass along what they heard to the whole rest of the world if they felt like it. He should probably send Jeff a text later, when he’s not on the verge of a panic attack from finally admitting something like this to someone who’s not Clare. 

He knows he shouldn’t be worried about a shocked or scandalized reaction, but he’s still not expecting the way Alessandro smiles calmly, nods, and gets up from his seat to come kiss Harry’s hand. Harris doesn’t outwardly react much either, but they must have twitched in surprise a bit, because a second later the woman painting their nails apologizes for smearing varnish over their knuckles. 

As soon as she gets up for a towel, Harris smiles tremulously and says, “That’s so wonderful, Harry. Thank you for sharing that with me.” 

“I mean, I don’t know if genderfluid is the right word,” Harry clarifies. “I don’t know if I even want to use a specific word. I just —”

“I get it,” Harris assures him, and then they get up and come around the table to wrap their arms around both him and Alessandro, who beams at Harry like a proud father. 

“I’m even more honoured to be having my nails painted with you, now that I know how personal this is,” Alessandro says dreamily, patting Harry’s cheek. 

“Well, I’m honoured that I get to work with you,” Harry counters, thinking privately that ‘lucky beyond his wildest dreams’ would also be accurate to say. Getting the chance to work with people like Alessandro and Harris, who not only encourage his interests but have the same ones? Yeah, Harry knows exactly how lucky he is. For a brief moment, he imagines getting his nails manicured with the likes of Simon Cowell and Louis Tomlinson. The mental picture is so absurd he almost laughs. _ They _ would both _ definitely _ laugh if they saw him now. 

Louis would laugh at the flamboyant way Alessandro gesticulates as he instructs Harry and Harris to inhale deeply and ‘remember the scent’ of this moment (because after all, the Gucci Mémoire campaign is going to be all about how smells can trigger memory). Simon would laugh at Harris and their beautiful long red hair, and the feminine way they hold themselves, and how they’re so earnestly trying (and failing) not to cry about having learned something that will bond them to Harry forever. 

Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe neither of them would laugh. But Harry knows that they wouldn’t be comfortable here, or with this line of conversation. Neither would most of the people he used to work with, he’s sure. He figures that’s okay. He doesn’t need that part of his past to fit neatly into this new present. He’s at peace with having to leave it behind. 

Or at least that’s what he thinks in the light of the day. But late that night is a different story. He’s finally on the verge of sleep after hours of mingling, drinking, posing for photos, and performing. Right before he drifts off, someone on the balcony the next room over lights up a joint, and as soon as the scent wafts through the open windows, he bolts upright in bed. Shit. He laughed too, once, didn’t he? Where Harris and Alessandro and Clare and Sarah and Mitch have all been gently accepting, Harry once said to a friend’s face that he looked funny dressed up as a girl. 

It’s been years since he spared a thought for Zayn Malik. But for some reason, the faint smell of weed triggers his memory (the irony is not lost on him), and he suddenly remembers a day almost five years ago, when Zayn got high and Harry rifled through his things until he found something that neither of them were ready to talk about. 

He remembers Veronica. 

* * *

**iii. crashing a tea party (2015 CE)**

Right now, seventy-five percent of One Direction is out trawling pubs in London, but Harry Styles is at a tea party with a princess. 

The final leg of tour starts next week; considering it’s also shaping up to be their final tour, Liam had suggested they all get to England a few days early and have some ‘bonding time’ while they still could, like in the old days. Harry promptly ignores that invite when it comes. By now, he’s made it a mission to be as far away from the rest of the band as possible whenever he’s not literally on stage with them. It’s just good practice, he reckons, for when they go on ‘hiatus’ (break up) at the end of the year and all inevitably go their separate ways. 

If a tiny voice in his head is whispering that he’s being a diva, and that a separation would be less inevitable if he actually put in some bloody effort now, then Harry steadfastly ignores it. Zayn leaving was the last bit of confirmation he needed that their days of playing at brotherhood were over. They’re not a family. They’re co-workers, and pretty soon they’re not even going to be that. All things considered, Harry would rather get on with things than beat a dead horse. 

By chance, he ends up in England early anyway. But the last thing he feels like doing is going out for drinks and having Louis flinch and look around for a camera every time Harry stands too close to him. Luckily, he ends up having a perfect reason for not coming, now that he doesn’t have the excuse of being on a different continent. 

**heard you touched down at heathrow yesterday, welcome home H! any chance you could entertain lux for a couple of hours while i get some work done? **

Harry texts Lou back an affirmative right away and heads over to her townhouse as fast as he can. Less than half an hour later, he’s settled in a chintz armchair and sipping imaginary tea with three different stuffed bears (excuse him, three different _ royal knights _) and Princess Lux Atkin, who’s declared herself the Little Mermaid’s human cousin, apparently. 

He’s having the time of his life, to be honest. Getting to watch Lux grow up is one thing Harry honestly will miss about being part of the band. He hopes that he and Lou can still stay in touch somewhat, because he loves being an honorary uncle. She’s quite possibly the most precocious five year old he knows, and she earns that title again when she insists that as Harry’s crashed her party, he’s not properly dressed for royal tea. He sits obediently still while she digs up the toy makeup kit Lou bought her and slathers a bunch of cheap blush and glitter on him.

Then she stands back and actually puts a hand on her chin, somberly assessing her work. God, Harry loves this kid. 

“Not done yet,” she declares, and then walks off. Harry gets up, reluctantly breaking the royal decree she’s imposed on him, because Lou asked him to keep Lux occupied and he’s sure she’s about to go bother her mother. 

Lou has an unreadable look on her face when Harry finds them both, Lux explaining that she needs some of ‘mummy’s makeup bottles’ so she can paint Harry’s nails too. 

“He needs to be presentable,” Lux insists, spectacularly mispronouncing the last word. But that’s not what Lou decides to correct her about. 

“Honey, Harry’s a boy,” Lou tells her, still wearing that strange expression. “He doesn’t need makeup or nail varnish to look presentable. That actually makes him _ less _fit for a tea party.” 

Harry physically winces from the effort of not responding to that. It’s not his place to contradict Lou in front of her daughter. Lux seems really confused, though.

“But you put makeup on Harry all the time,” she says, crossing her arms like she’s gearing up for a snit. “And Liam and Louis and Niall and Zayn and lots of other boys.” 

“That’s different, baby,” Lou says, and god, is she really going to keep ploughing along about this when Lux already seems upset about it?

“That’s just a bit of foundation and the like, for their shows. It’s not meant to _ look _like he’s wearing makeup. Eye shadow and glitter and bright colours, that kind of makeup is for girls, not boys.” 

“I mean, I think there are plenty of boys who wear that kind of makeup, actually.” Harry can’t help it. He’d never be able to face Nick Grimshaw or any of his other gay friends again if he didn’t say _ something _right now. 

Lux nods at him. “Drag queens,” she says sagely. 

Harry lets out a bark of laughter. Lou smiles a little too, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Of course, then she ruins it by explaining to Lux that Harry’s not ‘that kind’ of boy and she should let him wash the makeup off before they go back to their tea party. How the hell is he supposed to counter that? By saying that he _ is _that kind of boy? How could he, when he’s not sure that it would be true?

In fact, he’s not even sure what Lou means, he thinks as he furiously scrubs off the glitter in the guest bathroom. She has to know by now that he’s not exactly straight; he gave up being subtle about that a year ago. Does she think he’s some ‘masc4masc’ kind of queer guy, or something? Or maybe he just doesn’t have the right face for bright lipstick, in her professional opinion. Harry’s honestly mystified.

Deep breaths, he thinks to himself, looking at his scrubbed pink reflection in the mirror. Less than four months, and then — well. And then, what? The band going on hiatus will magically give him the confidence to walk about in a full face of makeup whenever he wants? Not likely. He doesn’t even know if he’d want to, to be honest. But privately, Harry thinks as he rejoins Princess Lux’s royal tea party, it’d be nice to have the option. 

For now, though, he doesn’t want to argue with Lou and risk alienating her; if she ever stopped asking him to babysit Lux, it would break his heart. So he gushes to the royal knights about what a good hostess the princess is, because he knows it’ll make Lux giggle, and he tries to forget the whole awkward conversation.

* * *

**iv. crashing a tea party (2019 CE)**

Every August, the Richmond Tea Rooms in Manchester host a pair of women for an annual-mother daughter date; this year, to the shock of the employees, that reservation is for three people — and one of them is Harry Styles. 

Harry’s a bit nervous that Gemma dragged him along today, even though she insisted it would be fine. He feels like he’s intruding; Anne hasn't said anything, but he knows she's confused about why Gemma’s brought him along. 

When he’d shared his worries earlier, Gemma had assured him that it would be “the perfect opportunity to come out to her, H! This way we can explain that you’re not _ crashing _ our girls’ day, you’re _ part _of it.” 

Harry came out to his sister a month ago. He didn't use the word genderfluid, like he did with Harris, but he didn’t use a different word either. He still hasn’t found a label he’s comfortable using. She understood anyway, in that intuitive way of older siblings. She’s yet to ask him about his pronouns, which Harry is dead thankful for, because he’d have absolutely no idea how to answer that one either. 

If he’s honest, it _ is _a little reassuring that they’re doing it here: in a tea room smack in the middle of Manc’s gay village. Just down the road is the pub where last week, Harry fumbled an explanation of his changing identity to Nick, and got the world’s biggest hug in return. 

Once the three of them are settled down (at one of the private tables, of course), Harry orders a cinnamon and peppermint tea to calm his nerves. Then he tunes out of the conversation for a bit. Anne is chattering away about all the changes in the decor since she was here last year. He just smiles, nods, and starts mentally reviewing his plan. Harry doesn’t want to stutter over his words like he did with Nick, or not have the words at all, like with Gemma. This is his mother; he’s only going to have one opportunity to talk to her about this for the first time, and he’s. Not. Going. To blow it. Come on, Styles. Head in the game, here. 

Harry waits until their finger sandwiches have arrived and they’re not at risk of being interrupted by a waiter for a while. And then he starts small. 

“Hey mum,” he says, as casually as he can muster, “Sorry about coming along last-minute like this. I know you and Gems like to do this every year, just the two of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anne says, just as he planned. “It seems like neither of us get the opportunity to see you, what with all the traveling. You superstar, you.” She winks at him, and Gemma shakes her head playfully, telling her, “Don’t pad his ego even more, mum, c’mon.” 

“Well, still, it feels a bit strange to be tagging along for your girls’ day,” Harry insists, gearing up for the segue Gemma suggested. “Since I’m a guy, and all,” he says, his tone warping a bit, but hopefully not noticeably. It’s probably the first time in more than a year that he’s referred to himself like that. Anne pauses when he says it, teacup almost to her lips. She cocks her head at him like her mum senses have activated. 

“You know Harry, I don’t find it strange at all, actually,” she says. 

Wait. 

Does she already know? She can’t know. Did Gemma tell her? Did _ Nick _ tell her, the last time they were gossiping together? No, he wouldn’t do that. Maybe everyone knows, Harry thinks wildly. Maybe he’s been obvious about it for ages and everyone’s just been waiting for him to say something — been watching from a distance and pitying his _ pathetic _struggles with this, and —

“Harry.” Gemma’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel, but eventually Harry manages to focus on it. He finds that he’s gripping his teacup so tightly that the china is protesting with an awful grinding sound. And he’s put his elbow in a cucumber and ham sandwich; perfect. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you, love,” Anne says softly. “I just meant —” she pauses to finally take that sip of tea, and then gently but pointedly sets her cup down. Harry follows suit before he can crack his own cup in half. She fusses with the elbow of his shirt for a moment, trying to blot it with a napkin so it won’t stain, and then she settles back in her chair.

“Did I ever tell you that Gemma was going to name you, if she’d ended up getting a baby sister instead of a baby brother? You would’ve been called Veronica.”

Boy, is Harry glad he’d set his tea down. If he’d still been drinking it, he would have spat out a mouthful for sure. 

"I don't remember if she was already in her Archie comics phase, or if she just heard the name somewhere and liked it, but that's what she had picked out for you."

While Gemma vehemently denies ever having an Archie phase, Harry tries to get his thoughts back in order.

Ever since that fateful night in Italy, Harry’s been trying to reach out to Zayn. This revelation is clearly a sign from the universe that he’s on the right track. Unfortunately, Harry hasn’t yet had any luck contacting him, and the two of them have spent so many years icing each other out that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get so much as a current phone number. 

He gets so distracted pondering _ that _dilemma that he momentarily forgets about his current one — until he notices that Gemma and Anne have finished bantering and are back to looking expectantly at him. He laughs weakly.

“Veronica Styles just doesn't have the same ring as Harry Styles, does it,” he says ruefully. 

“Not the same ring, it’s true,” Anne replies. “But not _ less _of a ring; not at all.” She reaches over to pat him on the hand, tactfully ignoring the way he’s started to tear up.

“Anyway, I've lost the thread. The point I was trying to make was that you and Gemma were always so close, even before you were born. When you were a baby, she would carry you around everywhere, which made my parents nervous — a child holding an infant and all that. But she knew to be careful with you, so I wasn't worried. The two of us loved you so much and so well, you'd think that certain well-meaning neighbors wouldn't have anything to be worried about.” 

Anne uses air-quotes as she says 'well-meaning" and her voice starts to take on a scathing tone. “But they still saw fit to say I should consider the consequences of you growing up with only female influences.” 

She pauses like she's waiting for Harry to jump in, but he couldn't open his mouth at the moment if his life depended on it. 

“Well,” Anne says eventually, when she realizes Harry's not going to say anything, “they never said what they meant by 'consequences' but I knew exactly what they were implying. That you'd end up gay, or transgender, and that was apparently a scenario to be _ avoided_.”

Forget not being able to talk; Harry's not sure he can even breathe right now. 

“Well. Bugger all that nonsense, straight to hell,” Anne says decisively. “They were just jealous that all their sons were ill-behaved devils, when you were the sweetest and most soft-spoken little thing.” 

“Hey, I’m not so sure about that bit,” Gemma interjects. “He was a proper menace some of the time.” Harry shoots her a watery smile. He can’t argue with her there. 

“God, I’m mucking this all up,” Anne says. “I just — I would never have thought anything of it. The things they implied. But then when you were five, you found out that boys couldn’t carry babies and become mummies — that _ you _couldn’t — and you wouldn’t stop crying about it for hours. I’d never seen you more upset, even when you were colicky as an infant.”

Her face screws up like remembering his distress is physically painful for her. Harry has no memory of that conversation, but his stomach clenches with a phantom pain all the same, like his body is remembering for him.

“And since then," Anne finishes, wiping her eyes with a napkin, "I suppose I’ve been expecting that a certain conversation might happen one day. When you were ready to have it.” 

Twenty years. She’s been waiting for this for twenty years. 

“Is that today, Harry? Is there something you want to tell me?” 

For a second, Harry is worried that his breath will still catch in his throat. That he still won’t be able to say anything. But he’s never had a hard time talking to his mum, and he’s not going to start now. So he grabs Gemma’s hand tightly. He looks into Anne’s eyes. And he finds that he’s so fucking glad to be telling her something that she already knew.

* * *

**v. in the studio with mitch (2016 CE)**

It’s a sticky, humid night in Jamaica’s Cocosan Villa, and Harry Styles isn’t going to remember any of this in the morning. 

After too many bottles of tequila — after bets and trades and slipping into a dress ever so softly — Harry stumbles into the makeshift studio they set up for their stay. He insists loudly that he wants to do some recording before bed. Of course, being arse over tits drunk as he is, he probably would have just ended up destroying a bunch of expensive equipment instead. 

Mitch is drunk too, but he’s also a legend at holding his liquor, so thankfully he’s there to gently tug a guitar out of Harry’s hands and help him get to bed. This is a good opportunity, Harry thinks through the haze of alcohol. Mitch. In my bedroom. He’s even trying to get Harry out of his clothes, which is convenient. But when what Mitch is actually saying registers, the bottom drops out of Harry’s stomach. 

“You don’t want to sleep in that thing, do you? Molly probably wants it back, dude. She won’t appreciate it if you puke all over her dress.” It’s a neutral-enough statement, but Harry starts crying anyway. 

“Oh god,” Mitch says, his face instantly melting from mildly amused to terrified. He takes a step forward, like he’s going to try to offer some form of comfort. Harry hits him in the arm. 

“Ow!” he says, sounding more surprised than angry about the sudden violence. Harry goes to throw another punch, but Mitch grabs his hand before the blow can connect. 

“Jesus. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a mad drunk. Or a sad drunk. What happened? You were fine when we were dancing earlier.” 

Instead of answering, Harry tries to wriggle out of Mitch’s hold, but it’s pointless. His arms are just that little bit shorter, and he can’t get enough leverage to get away. Which sucks, because he really wants to flounce off angrily after stepping on Mitch’s foot, like in _ The Princess Diaries 2_. 

“Please, just let me be Anne Hathaway,” is what he ends up saying out loud, which at least surprises Mitch into letting go of him with a huff of laughter. 

“It’s not funny,” Harry tells him darkly, roughly wiping the tears off his face. And oh. _ Oh_. 

“It’s not funny,” he says again, slowly this time, glowering at Mitch. “_That’s _ why you want it off me.” 

Mitch actually pinches the bridge of his nose. “What are you on about, H?” 

“It’s not funny when I do it, is it. So ‘s not allowed.” Yeah, Harry really hit the nail on the head here. He can’t believe he forgot that _ he’s _not allowed to wear girl’s clothes. Because then apparently it won’t be taken as a joke — it has to be some kind of come-on. And Harry has been trying to get Mitch in bed since they got to Jamaica, so he guesses Ben and James were right all along. He’s some kind of fucking deviant, probably. 

He wants to throw Mitch out so he can sulk in peace, but instead he just starts crying again: huge, heaving sobs this time. God, he feels so exhausted all of a sudden, but he’s still so drunk that everything feels ten times worse. This time, when Mitch approaches, Harry doesn’t take a swing at him. He lets him guide him gently down onto the bed, and when Mitch tentatively wraps his arms around him, Harry clings to him and spends several minutes covering his shirt in snot and tears. 

“Harry, I don’t know what I said, but I’m really sorry,” Mitch offers eventually, once Harry’s tapered off into snuffling miserably instead of outright crying. 

“It wasn’t you,” Harry mutters, still hiding his face in Mitch’s shoulder. “I’m just being stupid. Please just forget about it.” 

“Okay,” Mitch says, sounding dubious, but he doesn’t question further. He just stays there, holding Harry. 

Mitch would probably stay with him all night, if Harry asked it of him. Mitch would probably turn his head and kiss him, if Harry put a hand on his thigh right now. Mitch would probably even fuck him, if Harry laid down on the bed and rucked up his dress and spread his legs. But Harry isn’t going to do any of those things, because he’s a fucking coward. Because he doesn’t want James and Ben to have been right. 

It’s better if it was all a laugh, Harry decides. It’s better if Harry Styles in Molly Hawkins’ dress was ill-fitting and absurd. So he quietly asks Mitch to find him a pair of boxers to change into, before finally doing what Mitch asked of him (probably a half hour ago now, at this point) and pulls the dress over his head. A flash of sense memory bursts through him as he does: the cheap, almost plasticky feel of Zayn’s skirt under his hands. Veronica, Harry remembers. 

Before he can go too far down that road, Harry turns to where Mitch is holding a pair of pajama bottoms out towards him, eyes averted, and trades him for the dress. Mitch folds it neatly while Harry’s changing and puts it on the dresser where he got out the pajamas. 

“I know they’re not boxers,” Mitch says apologetically. “I didn’t know if you’d want me digging through your underwear drawer.”

“Tell me it was funny,” is Harry’s response. Before Mitch can get confused again, Harry repeats himself, basically begging now. 

“Me in that dress, the two of us dancing. Tell me it was all just a laugh. Please.” He doesn’t know why, but Mitch’s face falls slack with surprise and hurt, like Harry hit him again. 

“Sure,” he says eventually. “We were just joking around.” 

Harry nods. And then — he really shouldn’t ask, but he’s already spent the night embarrassing himself in front of Mitch for this long; what’s a little more humiliation? “Will you stay with me? I mean, you can spend the night if you want, but. At least stay until I fall asleep?”

For a second, he thinks Mitch is going to say no. Harry’s certainly jerked him around enough tonight that Harry wouldn’t blame him for just walking out. But instead, Mitch just shrugs off his shirt and sits down on the bed to take off his shorts. 

“Is it okay if I just sleep in my underwear? I figure you don’t want the sheets to smell like sand and saltwater in the morning.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, trying not to let his relief bleed into his voice. “That’s fine with me.” 

In the morning, Harry rolls over in bed and comes face-to-face with Mitch, who’s looking at him expectantly. 

“Urgh,” Harry says eventually, which he thinks is a pretty valiant effort at speech, given how badly his head is throbbing. Mitch laughs softly, clearly more recovered than him. The fiend. 

“You doing okay, H? I was a little worried about you.” Oh god. If Mitch is admitting to being worried...Harry hopes he didn’t do anything to embarrass himself too badly. 

He takes his time answering, too busy mustering up the energy to roll out of bed. He eventually manages it, and wobbles over to the dresser to find some clothes. There’s fabric of some kind already folded on top, but it’s a bright yellow colour that just makes his head hurt more, so he shoves it aside and starts rooting around for something dark to wear. 

“So,” Harry ventures once he’s dressed, “are you asking because I did something particularly stupid? What the hell happened last night anyway?” 

He turns around just in time to see Mitch schooling his face into a completely blank stare. Harry couldn’t say what it looked like before he smoothed it out, but he’s betting it wasn’t good. 

“Nothing much,” is all Mitch has to say. “I’m sure Jeff can tell you all about it over breakfast.”   
****

* * *

**vi. in the studio with mitch (2019 CE)**

A certain recording studio in Los Angeles has been booked more days than not the last couple of months, and Harry Styles has cast a spell over the whole building. 

Every employee — from execs to the cleaning staff — wants to know when he’s there, and if there's some small task they could possibly complete that would put them in his vicinity, and if they could get some tidbit of information about the second album. But only two other people on earth know that he’s in the building right now, and they’re standing in the belly of the main studio with him. 

It’s the dead of the night, of course. Harry had pulled some strings a few days ago to get a keycard for the building outside of normal operating hours. The official reason is that he hasn’t seen Mitch and Sarah in months, and now that they’re ready to start working on the album with him, he wants to show them around and get them up to speed privately.The real reason is — well. That he hasn’t seen Mitch and Sarah in months, and he needs Mitch to touch him more than he needs to fucking breathe. 

With all the time he’s spent in Japan at the end of last year and the beginning of this one, he’s been able to keep in contact with Clare pretty regularly, and they’ve even managed to fall in bed together a couple more times. He’s still trying to convince her to come out to LA to visit, but she hates transpacific flights with a passion. 

Mitch and Sarah, however...he hasn’t seen either of them in person since tour ended. And he hasn’t spoken to both of them at once since the phone call that night in Japan, when he ended up coming his brains out on Clare’s fingers. 

He did his best to play it cool when he picked them up from the airport earlier in the evening, exchanging pleasantries and talking about the schedule for the album over dinner. Harry’s not sure if they’re all ignoring the elephant in the room, or if he’s just imagining things that aren’t there. They’d agreed that they weren’t going to try to start anything while they were still a continent away from each other, but now Harry’s wondering if they should have at least talked a bit more about what they were going to do once they _ were _in the same place again. 

By the time he’s giving them a tour of the studio, he’s vibrating with energy. Mitch has a pretty good poker face as always, but Harry can read Sarah more easily — especially considering she’s literally looking back and forth between him and Mitch expectantly every few minutes. 

Eventually, they reach the room where Harry’s been recording most of the album so far. A grand piano sits proudly at its center and tens of guitars are lined up against the walls. Once Harry starts talking about how much he likes the plush carpet, Sarah seems to finally snap. She grabs her phone, presses a couple of buttons, and then sets it on the piano bench.

“Er,” Harry says, thrown off. “Did you want to do some recording yet tonight?” 

“Oh no,” Sarah says, “not music, anyway. I’ve just got a voice note going to send to Clare later, so that she can get the full effect when I complain about what a wet blanket you’re being.” 

Harry immediately starts spluttering. Wet blanket? That’s just uncalled for. 

“It’s not just you,” Sarah says in an attempt at reassurance. “Mitch’s silence is going to incriminate him well enough. Can’t wait to trash-talk with Clare about how much of a pussy you’re being right now, babe,” Sarah says sweetly, patting Mitch on the shoulder. Mitch buries his head in his hands. 

Well, fine. If she’s going to come right out about it, Harry’s just going to go for it. 

“You gonna narrate for her this time, then?” he asks. “Because she did such a good job painting a picture for you guys last time.” They stare at him, both dead silent, and Harry has exactly five seconds to wonder if everything’s about to crash and burn. And then Mitch is on him.

It's a little strange, kissing someone for the first time who he's already had mind-blowing phone sex with. It's also fucking incredible, and everything Harry has spent the last three years imagining it would be. He sometimes figured Mitch would be a little timid, but he always got off the hardest when he imagined him taking control and manhandling Harry a little (or a lot). Blessings upon blessings; it turns out the latter fantasy was more accurate. Mitch grabs Harry by the hips and backs them both into the piano, and then he presses not just their mouths but the whole of their bodies together, like they’re already fucking. 

They’re not really kissing each other; it would be more accurate to say that Mitch is kissing him. He licks into Harry’s mouth forcefully and all but plants a flag there with his tongue. Harry would be more than okay with being kissed like this for the rest of the night — the rest of his life, really, oxygen needs be damned — but Sarah, as always, has a destination in mind and a plan to direct them towards it.

“In case you’re wondering about the silence,” she says, “these two have been snogging for three minutes now.” Harry’s confused until he remembers the voice note. 

“You really are, then,” he says. “You’re going to record this for Clare, while —” 

“Just the audio,” Sarah says. “And it’s only fair. She’s the one who finally brought us together. She shouldn’t miss out on Mitch fucking you for the first time just because she’s not here.” _That _makes Mitch’s hips jerk into Harry’s like he’s already fucking into him. 

Well, Harry’s already wasted more than enough time — literal years — hesitating and missing chances because of it. He’s not going to make that mistake now. He turns around in Mitch’s arms until they’re back to front and then, well, no time like the present. He bends over the piano, delighting in Mitch’s surprised moan. 

Sarah makes good on her promise to narrate, describing how Mitch hurriedly takes off his stupid cowboy hat (her words), pulls Harry’s trousers down around his knees, and then shoves two fingers into Harry’s mouth. 

“Unless you brought lube, I’m gonna need you to get these as wet as possible,” Mitch tells him. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they walked into the room. Harry moans around his fingers and sucks them as sloppily as he can manage, getting drool over the whole lower half of his face. 

“You heard that, didn’t you, Clare?” Harry hears Sarah ask breathlessly. He turns as best as he can with his mouth full and sees that at some point, she’s sat down on the bench and gotten her right hand down her pants. The left one is gripping the side of the piano for support. “Seems like Mitch is copying you a bit, isn’t he?”

Mitch must remember _why_ Clare fingered him the way she did, because he pulls his fingers out of Harry’s mouth and then says, “Shouldn’t need more than that. Bet your pussy’s already wet enough for me.”

At one point, Harry would have felt guilty about the way his cock jumps and starts leaking at Mitch’s words. Harry knows better now, and just moans enthusiastically, shoving his arse back until he can feel Mitch’s jeans rubbing against his skin. Mitch places one hand on the small of Harry’s back, but his wet hand ventures lower. They’re not exactly taking their time — they’ve made themselves too desperate from waiting to do that — but there’s still a sort of reverence in the way Mitch runs his fingers through the cleft of Harry’s arse.

Sarah, amazingly, manages to keep talking while Mitch perfunctorily fingers him. Harry doesn’t know if Mitch is just keeping up the illusion that Harry has a pussy, or if he just doesn’t have any experience with arseholes, but either way, he does a bit of a rush job. Harry _ really _doesn’t mind that; he wants to be able to feel this in the morning, and remember. 

She finally falls into awed silence when Mitch starts sliding into him. Harry wishes he had her view; it’s definitely sexy, getting fucked from behind while draped over a piano, but he’s realizing that he still doesn’t know what Mitch’s dick looks like, even though it’s now literally inside him. It feels big, though, and god, he really needed to be stretched for longer, especially with no real lube. It’s actually on the wrong side of painful for a few seconds — and then Sarah pipes back up: “Jesus Clare, I wish I was recording video right now too. He’s taking it so well.” 

It’s like a switch flips in Harry’s brain, and he lets out a keening sound, humping back onto Mitch like a cat in heat. 

“Am I?” He asks Mitch urgently. “Do you like the way I’m taking it?”

Mitch presses Harry completely face-down and starts properly fucking him, holding him still to ensure that Harry can’t do anything _ but _take it. Once he’s gotten a few good thrusts in, he finally answers. 

“You’re being such a good girl for me, baby,” isn’t what Harry was expecting, but it’s what he gets, and he promptly embarrasses himself by coming all over the matte black surface of the piano. 

“Keep going,” he slurs out, once he’s gotten his bearings again and realizes Mitch has paused his movements. “Want you to fuck me as long as you can.”

“See, you said 'want' but it kind of sounds more like you _ need _it,” is Sarah’s comment from the peanut gallery, but at least she’s not making a premature ejaculation joke. 

She more than makes up for the jab a few minutes later, after Mitch has gotten a rhythm going and started fucking the breath out of him. 

“You should be more noisy,” she critiques. “Don’t you want Clare to hear how much you like being fucked right after you come?” Harry lets out a choked sound at that, more in reaction to her words than from a desire to adhere to them. Although he definitely has that too. 

“Aren’t you sensitive? Doesn’t it hurt a bit?” Sarah asks. Harry can’t see it, but her hand must be working at herself furiously, because he can hear the bench start squeaking. 

“Yeah, it hurts,” Harry says, not even trying to hide his satisfaction.

“God, you’re so slutty,” Mitch says, which makes him two for two on surprising comments that drive Harry completely fucking wild. If he hadn’t just come, that would definitely have set him off again.

“But that doesn’t make you _ a _slut,” Sarah assures him. 

“It doesn’t?” Harry asks, vaguely disappointed. 

“No. It makes you our good girl, spreading your legs for us because we want you to. You’re gonna spread them real wide next time, let us both lick your pussy out at the same time.” 

Mitch reacts to that one even more than Harry, fucking him almost double-time now. The piano is sturdy, all but bolted to the floor, but Harry likes to imagine Mitch is thrusting into him so hard that it starts creaking a little. 

“And speaking of next time, we are definitely doing this again. Every chance we can get, in fact. Not _ exactly _this, though. I want a go at you next time.” Sarah’s pausing for a second between each of her words now, clearly close to coming too.

“And as soon as I’m done, I’m gonna pass you off to Mitch, how does that sound? And we can keep passing you back and forth indefinitely, because I can keep fucking you for as long as it takes him — to recover —” she cuts herself off with a high-pitched moan as she comes.

“Sarah,” Mitch gasps out less than a minute later, “Sarah, I’m close, I —”

“Hey, Harry. I think Mitch wants to know if he can come inside you,” Sarah says, sounding winded but sated. 

Harry has to literally bite through his tongue to avoid saying ‘yes, please knock me up.’ Then he remembers that he doesn’t have to shove those thoughts down anymore. So he swallows a mouthful of blood, turns his head until Mitch can see a little bit of his face, and says exactly that. 

* * *

**coda (20?? CE)**

Zayn Malik is holed up in New York living the life of a recluse, and a woman named Veronica is standing at the door to his penthouse apartment.

Her name’s not Veronica all of the time. She’s not a woman all of the time. And regardless of what name she’s going by, she knows she’s the person Zayn least wants to see in the entire world. 

But she’s brought a peace offering with her: a Gucci handbag with a silk pencil skirt and brand new hosiery neatly folded at the bottom. Both articles of clothing cost more than most people make in a year. No one on Earth could mistake them for being part of a cheap costume. She also brought a selection of nail varnish with her — a dozen different bottles, including the same shade of light pink that Clare and Sarah first painted her nails with so many years ago. 

Steeling herself, she knocks on the door, hoping she doesn’t give Zayn too much of a shock, since she managed to flirt her way past the security in the lobby without them officially buzzing her up (she makes a mental note to tell Zayn to fire the guards who work there). 

And then she hears it, on the other side of the door. That voice. Still so familiar even now that all the Northern notes in his accent have worn away from years of living abroad. 

“What the hell do you want, Styles?” the voice asks. 

Veronica breathes in, and says, “I want to ask you a question.” 

Then she waits, and waits, and waits. And eventually, the door opens.


End file.
